While I write this story, I am looking at my son, Beau. He is happily sitting on the couch wearing shorts and a t-shirt, munching on pistachios, and grinning while watching Ghostbusters, a movie he specifically requested to watch. To most people, this would be a very ordinary scene.
My daughter, Ryan, was born December 4, 2002. Three and a half years later, she was diagnosed with autism. I became concerned about her development at age 2 ½, when she didn’t answer to her name, protested any demand placed on her, and was extremely tactile-defensive.